


the earth is not a cold dead place

by Caleb Nova (Caleb_Nova)



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: (because you are breathing), (because you are listening), Family, Gen, Mystery Twins, Post-Gravity Falls Lost Legends: Don't Dimension It, anthyding can hadplen, the earth is not a cold dead place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 08:20:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15602238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caleb_Nova/pseuds/Caleb%20Nova
Summary: We’re made from the same stuff that the stars are, Dipper had once told her.[post-Gravity Falls Lost Legends: Don't Dimension It]





	the earth is not a cold dead place

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* * *

 

**the earth is not a cold dead place**

Above is a field of stars like bright, distant flowers, dappled over the deep endless black of a universe which stretches away into unknown infinity. They disappear at the horizon into the fading remnants of the late day sun. It has sunk to nothing but the faintest tinge of color at the bottom edge of the sky, like the light from beneath someone’s door; a vanishing reminder that the sun now shines on different lands. Mabel’s looked at the stars often enough, but not like this. Now she feels that she’s been there, tripping the light on that big dark canvas. Colorful, brilliant. Shadowed, horrifying. Everything in between.

Star light, star bright. First star she sees tonight…

The shingles below her back keep her grounded even as the sky threatens to swallow her. She’s seen Dipper wander up onto the roof when he has some heavy thinking to do. She usually leaves him to it, and it seems like he’s returning the favor. Either that or he hasn’t noticed she’s not around. Normally the thought would make her want to get his (and everyone else’s) attention. But now she wants a little time to herself. Of course, out there in the multiverse she spent more time with herself than she really wanted to. Funny how that works. And here she’d always thought that she would be great company.

Within reason, apparently. Provided it isn’t a totally evil herself.

There’s a thought there, about mirrors and actuality, expectations. Anti-Mabel was more anti-everything, seems like. And if Mabel is the anti-Anti-Mabel, does that make her Pro-Mabel? No: Positive-Mabel. And it’s not inherent. She’s always sort of assumed it is, but it’s not. Anti-Mabel had said she was every bad decision Mabel ever made. But Mabel’s not done making decisions.

She’s not a Mabel who’s a table or a ladle or unstable. She’s just Mabel. She’s… a process. And if every life is a series of steps, fading off into that big black infinity, then she has learned, now, to choose hers more carefully. More _consciously._

She closes her eyes. The wind stirs the pine trees and ruffles gently across her face, cool and welcoming. Stars wheel above, shingles brace below, the Shack sits in the clearing and inside is her family, old and new, together. It is all one piece, one unbroken road glittering on the cosmic thread. _We’re made from the same stuff that the stars are,_ Dipper had once told her. She doesn’t know which stars are her brothers and sisters, but now she’s been past a few. Neighbors, all. Ride the rainbow, hop the event horizon. There’s so much, so far, so vast.

She is one small, earthbound shooting star.

And she chooses — not does, or is, or happens to, but _chooses_ — to shine along with this single brilliant pebble winging through a limitless dark.

Positive-Mabel.

There’s a clatter from behind her, shoes on the old wooden ladder. She doesn’t need to open her eyes, too familiar with the sound of Dipper’s stride as he approaches.

“So, just a heads up, but I’m pretty sure Great-Uncle Ford wants to scan your brain,” Dipper tells her as he plops down into the reclining lawn chair.

“Is he building me a robot one?” Eyes still closed, she sticks her arms straight up into the air. “Beep bop! I. Am. Robo-Mabel. Give me all your microchips and ice cream.”

“He probably just wants to make sure you’re okay.” A pause. “I mean, we all do.”

Dipper is well-meaning but not exactly subtle. She knows the kind of awkward, so-how-about-those-emotions-of-yours posture he’s wearing without even looking. He shines when the moment only allows him to be off the cuff, always managing to deliver just the right words. It’s when he has time to think that he gets into trouble.

They’ve always been twins with all that implies. Before this summer, she thought they were as tight as a brother and sister could be. Now, with the susurrus of the trees whispering beneath the last purple swathe of eventide, she’s never felt closer to him.

“I’m okay if you’re okay,” she hums. She swears she can feel the earth buzzing in her palms and pulsing through her naked heels, swinging its way through a heliocentric reverie.

“Me?” He sounds surprised. “You’re the one who got pulled into the Nightmare Realm. I’m fine.”

She smiles contentedly. “We’re all fine! We made it, Dipper.”

He chuffs out a faint laugh, probably interpreting her odd mood as goofiness. “Yeah, I guess so.”

She’s already said it, but she needs him to understand. “I really am sorry. For… you know. Everything.”

Dipper sighs. “Hey, so am I. It’s not like I didn’t do my share of dumb stuff this summer.”

“You didn’t cause the apocalypse, though,” she says with a fresh swell of shame.

Dipper makes a sound of frustration. “Neither did you. That was Bill, okay? Bill did that. He spent, like, a billion years trying to cause Weirdmageddon and it’s not like you’re the first person who got tricked by him. Not even the first this summer, remember?”

He’s right. Still, it bothers her. “I know. It’s just… I wish I hadn’t been so dumb.”

“And I wish I hadn’t tried to use time travel to manipulate Wendy. Or do my best to get us killed on Summerween.” He leans back in the lawn chair, the fabric creaking. “Maybe we take turns being stupid. Maybe it’s like a twin thing, or something.”

“But we’re not getting stupider when we’re older. We already decided that,” Mabel says with a grin.

“Yeah, this is as stupid as we’ll ever be,” he laughs.

“Good.”

Now it’s fully nighttime. Each star is a pinprick glittering like gems on black velvet. Mabel’s eyes trace the dim band of the Milky Way.

“What was it like out there?” Dipper asks quietly.

Mabel purses her lips. “Really, really weird.”

Dipper grunts softly. “Can’t believe I missed it.”

“Come on, bro-bro! You really think there won’t be a next time?”

“I wonder how old I’ll have to be before Great-Uncle Ford will take me.”

Mabel rolls her eyes. “Like you won’t just fall into a portal next summer or whatever.”

“…Yeah, that sounds about right,” Dipper concedes.

Another silence. Mabel breathes deep, inhaling the conifer scent of the forest and the musty hewn wood of the Shack.

Then Dipper speaks again. “Are you ready to go home?”

This plucks a sour note in her chest. “We _are_ home,” she mutters.

“I know. But, Mom and Dad… I mean, I’m sure they miss us.”

She’s barely had the time to miss them. But she does, suddenly, and fiercely. Then the faces of her Piedmont friends come swimming up from the depths of her memory, dusty and faded. And yet, it’s still so hard to want to return.

“I wish we were all together,” she says softly.

“Maybe someday. I don’t know,” he says helplessly.

Someday. A life with both halves combined, in symphony; as distant and mysterious as the twinkling lights above. All she has is hope.

But, she’s always been good at hoping.

She reaches out and grabs his ankle where it dangles off the chair, his sock warm in her hand. “We’ll be okay, Dipper. Mystery Twins?”

His smile is wry, but no less genuine for it. “Mystery Twins.”

For now, nothing else need be said. They sit together under the speckled canopy of night, beneath the wide bright dark, listening, absorbing the world in its active slumber. Mabel closes her eyes again and just _feels_ it. Everything.

Everything.

A breeze slips out of the forest, sneaks under the hem of her sweater and runs wispy fingers through her hair. It’s alive, this place. Every waving branch and burbling stream, every inch of soft loam and firm rock. She is, too. The Shack is a beacon, a cozy craft, and she and her family, all bundled together in this patch of warm light, are sailing through that big black night above.

And for a moment, she thinks — she _knows_ — that she can feel the love that insulates against all that far-flung darkness, the ties that bind them to the earth and to each other. That they are not, cannot be, alone. There are candles in the constant. And each candle is a heart that burns until it lights another, passed palm to palm, cheek to cheek, until the rows become a choir. That joyous heightening becomes a murmur, becomes a clamor, becomes the bright curve of arcing song. She sings; she hears the song, and she sings. The glow swells in her chest and flows to the tip of her tongue and the words are what she is to them and they to her and it’s right there; she can nearly hear the chorus. They are all who can love and are loved. Hers here with her, in the strings they tied themselves, in concert and company, in a copse. Pines.

She blinks. The stars come back into focus.

And it’s gone.

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End file.
